


As the Crow Flies Free

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [15]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Gen, Wynne - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:45:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6978271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Zevran's past finally catches up to him in the form of Taliesen, he deals with the aftermath of choosing to walk away from the life he has always known. Fortunately, he is not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As the Crow Flies Free

For a fraction of a moment, Zevran wants to doubt his eyesight. This is a mistake. This has to be!

Except that it isn’t. He knows that it isn’t. This man standing at the top of the stairs, blocking their way out of this alley with four other companions; this is the past finally catching up to him, just as he always knew it would.

“Taliesen.”

It takes the turn of Aeron’s head to realize he spoke the name aloud. Her brow furrows. “That’s him?”

Zevran nods slowly. “Be alert. He could be up to anything. We’re probably surrounded.”

Taliesen gives a disapproving click of his tongue. “Zevran, is that any way to talk about an old friend? And in front of such very important people, besides! Two mighty Grey Wardens—two of the last in all Ferelden!” He grins at them. “The Crows send their greetings, once again.”

“Meaning they sent you? Or did you volunteer?”

“Oh, I volunteered, of course. When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself.”

“And now that you’ve seen it,” Aeron says, “I’ll give you the option of leaving before I make you.”

Taliesen makes a derisive sound. His gaze skips past her to where Zevran stands. “You can still return with me. We can be as we were again!”

Zevran tries to ignore the twist of pain in his chest. “We would have to raise the dead, and that never ends well for anyone.”

“Then we can start anew! We can be better than before. Together.” Taliesen’s gaze softens. “I know why you did this—believe me; I don’t blame you—but it’s not too late. Come back, Zevran. We’ll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake. Even the Crows understand that.”

And for a fraction of a moment, Zevran wants to believe him.

“Manipulative _fuck_ —” Aeron’s voice is the sudden press of thorns against distracted fingers. “I’m sure it helps your ‘story’ if we’re dead first, doesn’t it?”

The softness goes out of Taliesen’s face swifter than snuffed candlelight, and that’s when Zevran makes his choice.

“I am not about to let that happen!” He watches the anger it inspires with a strange sort of satisfaction. “I am sorry, my old friend, but the answer is no. I am not coming back—and you should have stayed in Antiva.”

“Bastard!” Taliesen snarls. “You’ve gone soft! I’ll see you pay for that.”

“You are welcome to try!” Zevran calls back.

So this is how it begins, is it? Finally, after so much waiting—after so many glances over his own shoulder and watching the hidden spaces where few think to look—after nights spent sleepless, ever watchful for more than just darkspawn—

_And he is not alone._

Neither, however, is Taliesen. There were four with him at the start. Now the number seems twice that, with people joining the fray as if springing directly from the walls, and they are eager to draw blood. They are laughably unprepared. An ambushed assault on two Grey Wardens, a mage, _and_ a Crow—

“Traitor!”

Zevran whips around and locks knives with someone who cannot possibly have seen more than seventeen summers. Zevran has never seen this person in his life, but the ferocious anger behind their blows and the insults they throw at him…

It was not that long ago that Zevran would have taken a betrayal of the order so personally, without stopping to understand the finer details. Maybe that’s why he dispatches his foe with a sound crack across the jaw and moves on as they crumple unconscious to the ground.

Others do not inspire as much sympathy out of him. There are faces he does recognize, and he strikes them down fast, using what he remembers of their strategy against them. Between skirmishes, Zevran pulls a spare knife from his belt and lets it fly, watching as it lands in the side of a Crow with ideas of stabbing Aeron in the back.

“Not today!”

Not ever. Not if he can help prevent it.

“To your left!” Alistair comes charging in, shield colliding with another of Zevran’s would-be assailants. “Are all your ex-lovers this unforgiving?”

Somehow, Zevran has breath to chuckle, to wink. “Keep me around long enough, maybe you can tell me!”

Together they dispatch another, Alistair lining them up as Zevran moves in for the final strike. He spares a glance across the square. Aeron is doing fine, doubly so with Wynne providing bolts of arcane energy as cover fire. The Crows don't stand a chance.

“Scatter while you can!” Zevran calls. “You might get away with your pride if you leave now.”

He almost wants to laugh. Is it really going to be this easy? Impossible. Freedom isn’t supposed to be this easily won, right?

“Where is he? Where is that—? Oh, he’s fucking _gone!_ ” The snarl in Aeron’s voice puts a shiver down Zevran’s back. Her eyes are bright with the energy of combat. “Did anyone else see where he went?”

Alistair draws in a breath, watching her when he should be watching the rooftops and shadows the way she is. “He can’t have gotten very far, can he? We’ll find him, Aeron.”

“We’d fucking better. I want him found before he thinks he gets to try again.” Aeron spits at the ground. She shakes her hair from her face and lifts her gaze to the rooftops again, squinting against the sun. “He shows up to chat then lets his lackeys do the dirty work? Something isn't right.”

“No. But Taliesen will only show himself again when he's ready—and he will.” Zevran frowns. “His pride is wounded. He will want to fix that.”

Aeron sheaths her sword. “Let’s get back and regroup. Maybe Morrigan knows a spell we can use to track him.”

They do so with reluctant expressions. Alistair reaches out to rest a hand on Aeron’s shoulder; she draws herself close to his side, looking up as his arm settles around her. Wynne follows nearby, quiet, occasionally glancing at the ones under her healing charge. Zevran trails behind them, uneasy, watching any and every space for even the mere hint of an ambush. Taliesen can't have gotten far. He would never simply leave this unfulfilled, not with his mark so close.

Of course, that’s when he feels it—that all-too-subtle, all-too-familiar _itch_ that makes his ears perk; the telltale sign of being watched. Zevran looks up, letting instinct guide his eyesight until he turns and—

_Oh no._

Taliesen is barely visible in the half-boarded window, but years of training and missions and impassioned nights have rendered it impossible for Zevran to mistake him for anyone or anything else. He knows what Taliesen is waiting for. It’s still not too hard to picture him standing in the dust and the near-dark, trained arms tense with the effort of keeping the arrow notched in his bow until the very last moment. Surely, even now, he is counting down the number of Aeron’s steps under his breath; waiting for that number to reach zero so that all might come to fruition.

It is, Zevran concedes, not a bad strategy.

There is just one small problem.

An arrow can never tell the difference between its intended target and the fool who steps in its path.

“ZEVRAN!”

He hears her scream and knows his gamble paid off. Strange—he barely felt the jagged arrowhead pierce him; merely the pressure of its impact as it landed. The pain catches up soon enough—a dull, heavy ache that spreads from the inside out. Zevran stumbles. He falls to the ground. A pair of strong arms slides under his body and starts to drag him backward out of further danger.

That's when the pain really kicks up—sharp, burning. Zevran cries out. He clings to the arms around him and tries to twist free—

“I know, I’m sorry—” Alistair’s voice is low, punctuated with heavy breaths. “Hang on—”

He is propped against something hard—a box or a wall or something similar. He isn't sure. It doesn’t matter, really.

“He would’ve—Taliesen—I had to—” It hurts to talk. It’s hard to breathe. One of his lungs might be collapsing. Maybe. With all this pain inside of him, it is _really_ hard to figure out what the arrow ruined. “Alistair—”

“Try to hang on, Zevran. Save your strength—”

“But you believe me? You— _Alistair, please—!_ ” Zevran scrambles for his hand. _“Believe me—”_

“I do. I—I do, okay? Just relax—”

“Aeron—she—”

A furious, wordless scream tears through the alley. Both men shudder. Despite the arrow sticking out of his chest and the pain it brings, Zevran lets out a low laugh. Taliesen really should have stayed in Antiva.

“Diosa mia…”

He blinks, or at least he thinks of blinking. When he again opens his eyes, he is surrounded by three faces. Wynne has a grave expression. Alistair’s face is pinched with worry.

There is blood spatter on Aeron’s face—and Zevran knows, as sure as his own name, that it isn’t hers.

“Taliesen—” Every cough brings on a fresh wave of pain. Is that blood in the back of his throat already? Can’t be. “Tell me—”

The way she lowers her eyes… She doesn’t have to.

“I can heal the wound,” Wynne says, “but the arrow has to come out.”

“ _What?_ We can’t just— You don’t just _remove_ an arrow!” Alistair argues. “He’ll bleed to death first!”

“Maybe if we just push it through—” Aeron starts.

“No, it doesn’t matter,” Alistair answers. “He’ll bleed out—”

“I have enough magic to treat the worst of it and keep him stable until we get back to the arl’s estate—which we should do quickly.” Wynne looks around. “We can’t be certain those were all of that man’s companions.”

“I’m pretty sure…” But Aeron glances behind her shoulder. “Still, Wynne is right. Whatever we’re going to do, we do it fast.”

“Take it—” Zevran coughs. “If I live, I will live.”

“Let’s all remember that he’s in unbearable pain right now and, as a result, probably shouldn’t be trusted,” Alistair reminds them hurriedly. “Use your magic to keep him stable, Wynne. I’ll carry him back to the estate—”

_“Pullitout,”_ Zevran insists. “Please. I trust her—”

“That's good. Still not going to stop you from bleeding out on us.”

“Hold him steady, Alistair.” Aeron kneels down in the space between Zevran’s legs. “Wynne, ready your magic.”

“You sure about this. You’re really sure about this?” asks Alistair.

Aeron nods slowly. There are sparks of pain as her fingers curl around the arrow’s bloodied shaft. Her eyes meet Zevran’s. There is nothing ferocious in her gaze now; only desperation, fear.

“You trust me, right? Hey!” She grips his shoulder hard. “Zevran! Do you trust me?”

Zevran bows his head towards hers, eyes closed. For a moment, Aeron’s lips are feather-light against his brow and every ounce of pain recedes. He whispers her name—

Then the pain floods his senses, white-hot and blinding, and the drop into darkness is a welcome relief.

* * *

Zevran opens his eyes and is surprised to be alive.

The room is dim, candles providing the only light. The bed is soft, the blankets cool against his skin. His chest and back ache with a pain akin to being pummeled. It takes more effort to sit up than he expects. His muscles seize with a cramp and he curls around himself, biting back any noise of discomfort as he presses a hand against where the wound should be.

It isn’t there, of course.

At least, not in as grave a state as it should be. There is gauze underneath his fingers, wrapped around him by careful hands. The bittersweet smell of herbs is only now reaching his nose. Curiosity gets at him. Just how bad was the wound, that not even Wynne’s magic could completely close it? How close was he to the edge this time?

What made him trust that they would not let him fall past it?

Zevran frowns. He hurts too much to start with such large thoughts. Best to start small. Maybe he can get some food. At the very least, he can try getting some fresh air or a bit more light—

The floor is cold beneath his bare feet. He grips the edge of the bed and waits for the shivers to subside. He breathes in slowly, deeply; steadying himself for the initial _push_ , the unsteady sway…

And then he lifts his head.

And he goes still.

And he realizes that he has not been alone this entire time.

“What are you doing here?”

Aeron does not answer him. He doubts she even heard him, curled up asleep in the chair as she is. Someone coming in to check on them draped a thin blanket over her instead of trying to wake her. A candle and a teacup still half-full sit on the small table nearby. A fallen book lies open facedown on the floor.

How long has she been there? Zevran can picture her arguing for it, almost too easily; can picture her reading, maybe out loud in a soft voice, and occasionally glancing in his direction. Did she leave to get more tea? Did someone periodically come up, knowing she would want more but did not want to leave until he awakened?

Why does any of this matter? People have kept watch over him before. This is hardly the first time Zevran has done something so reckless.

So why does it make him feel so…?

With a small huff, Zevran pushes himself to his feet and fights the dizzying buzz telling him to sit back down. He shuts his eyes, clenches his fists—

Of course, that has to be when someone opens the door.

“Zevran?” Alistair’s footsteps are heavy but quick as he crosses the room. “Hey—are you—?”

“Not so loud.” Zevran takes the arm offered in support and sits back down. “She fell asleep—”

“Did she? I’m not—I mean, it’s been a long…few days…” When the dizzying buzz finally disappears, Zevran opens his eyes to find Alistair looking at him. “Are you alright? Figured I’d come check since Aeron hadn’t come down for tea in a while.”

Zevran manages to shrug. “I’ve certainly fared better.”

“Haven’t we all.” Alistair crosses his arms. A grave expression crosses his face. “It was touch and go for a while. Wynne was able to fix all the, ah, the internal…” He clears his throat. “Still, you’ve got stitches that will come out later. Wynne said as much, anyway. I’m sure she’ll give you the entire lecture later on.”

“I suppose she will.”

“There’s also, ah…oh—” Alistair goes to the bedside table and picks up a little brown bottle long enough to show it to Zevran. “Wynne put this together for you, for if you’re feeling any pain. Three drops in tea or water ought to…you know…”

They slip into silence that is only a touch awkward. In the armchair, Aeron shifts slightly beneath the blanket. Alistair turns. Both men hold their breath until she settles. Zevran points out the fallen book and Alistair retrieves it, holding it in both hands as he studies the cover. The grave expression returns to his face.

“She was scared that she made the wrong choice.”

“Aeron?”

Alistair nods. He carefully sets the book on the end table. “I mean, truth is that—y’know, without Wynne—”

“It would have been much less _touch_ and a lot more _go_ —or _gone_ , perhaps.” Zevran scoffs a little. “And to think, that was something I once wanted very badly.”

“You?” Alistair blinks. “Honestly?”

“She never told you?” It comes as a surprise when Alistair shakes his head. “I just assumed, as close as you are—”

“Oh, I mean—we _talk_ , sure, but…” Alistair shakes his head again. “The secrets she chooses to keep and the reasons she has for keeping them are her own. I learned that lesson fast.”

Zevran makes a thoughtful sound. The mattress shifts with the weight of Alistair settling down on the corner of the bed. They sit like that in silence, each left with his own thoughts as they watch Aeron sleep. Zevran sneaks the occasional glance sideways, heartened by the fondness he finds on Alistair’s face.

Heartened, as opposed to when it merely amused him to see Alistair so plainly and so awkwardly lovesick for this girl—this young woman, rather—with the short temper and harsh mouth. And that’s a good thing, isn’t it, this change? Of course it is. Especially since he feels it, too, that fondness. That affection.

That _love_ , perhaps, though the word carries too much weight for comfort.

Something close to it, then, with the potential to be as strong without disrupting what Alistair feels for her. That would be…

Another wave of cramps sends Zevran’s thoughts veering off track. Try as he might to hide his discomfort, Alistair notices; helps him lie propped up against a pile of pillows. The change in position only helps slightly. He tries not to move, tries not to encourage each small twitch and twinge. Even so, the pain coils around him, pulsing.

“Try to breathe through it, alright? Just—” Alistair sits on the edge of the bed. He offers his hand and Zevran takes it, _squeezing_. “Maker, you’ve got a grip, huh?”

“You’d be—impressed—”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He glances over his shoulder as if hearing something. “Come on, Zevran. Try to relax.”

“Alistair? What’s going on—? Is he—?” Aeron curses softly under her breath. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep—”

“Get the little bottle Wynne prepared for him,” Alistair tells her. “He’s hurting pretty bad.”

“It’s nothing—” Zevran shuts his eyes tight. “I’m—I’ll be fine—”

“Friendly reminder that you recently walked into an arrow.” There is a beat of silence before Aeron asks, “Did you bring any water?”

“No,” Alistair says. “I thought—”

“Hang on,” she tells him. “I know what I can…” Through another moment of silence, he can hear her moving items. “Shift down a bit—”

Zevran reluctantly releases Alistair’s hand as he feels Alistair move away. The mattress slightly dips again. Slimmer fingers slip under the back of Zevran’s head and slowly lift him forward. The rim of the teacup is gently pressed against his lips. He reaches up to hold the cup himself and swallows down as much of the cooled, mildly bitter tea as he can.

“Not too fast,” Aeron warns him. “Last thing you need is to choke.”

But Zevran only lets her have the teacup back when he starts to feel the pain recede; by then, it is nearly empty. His cramping muscles begin to relax as Aeron gently returns him to lying against the pillows. It feels like a small gift, being able to breathe comfortably.

“Better?” asks Aeron.

Zevran opens his eyes. “You are quite a welcome sight for tired eyes.” He dares to smile. “Both of you.”

The Wardens glance at each other. Alistair shakes his head. Aeron sighs a little, but she has a half-smile of her own.

“I’ll take that to mean yes.”

Alistair rises from the bed. “I suppose that also means it’s time to fetch Wynne. The sooner he gets through her orientation on wound care, the more time he’ll have for actually resting.”

“Considering what could have been,” Zevran answers, “I welcome it.”

“Yeah, you say that now. Wait until she gets about thirty seconds in,” Alistair tells him. “Trust me. Just you wait!”

“She’s really not that bad,” Aeron says after he leaves. “She only lectures him so much because he’s terribly impatient. I’m convinced she puts a charm on the bandaging just to keep him from fiddling with it.”

Zevran makes a thoughtful sound as she rises from the bed. “Perhaps I should ask her to do the same for me. I hate the waiting that comes with healing; always reminds me that I could be useful elsewhere instead of sitting alone in a bed for days on end.

“Still,” he adds in a lower voice, “I would do this again. It was right. I don’t get to say that often.”

Aeron picks up the blanket from the armchair. “There are much less dangerous ways to do what’s right, Zevran.”

“None that would have saved you.” He realizes the potential tone of his words too late and frowns. “That wasn’t—”

“I know what you mean.” She tosses the blanket half-folded in the chair’s seat. “I _am_ grateful, Zevran, I just… You almost died, and it feels like I’m saying that a lot lately—like it’s becoming some kind of strange…fucked-up rite of passage or just—”

“Ven.”

Zevran shifts to the right. He silently pats the resulting extra space. Aeron approaches carefully. She makes a resting place of his shoulder. He thinks of a hundred different things to tell her—considers, even, telling her that she made the right choice—but none of them feel right. Instead, wordlessly, Zevran takes her hand in his. He pretends he does not see the bits of dry blood caught around her short nails. It’s not like all of it used to be his, anyway.

* * *

He approaches her a few days later. Aeron is sitting in the dining hall, stirring what looks to be jam into a bowl of oatmeal. She has yet to braid her hair and something about seeing it unbound around her shoulders temporarily disarms him. It is like seeing something meant to be a secret. Zevran hesitates—until he notices the small smile on her face.

“Shouldn’t you still be in bed?”

“Another minute more, and you would have needed a mage’s natural charm to keep me there.” Zevran approaches. “Might you enjoy a guest this morning?”

“I might.” Aeron looks up. “You’re looking better.”

“All thanks to the healing skills of our dear Lady of the Circle, to be sure. I owe her a proper gift.”

“Is that what brings you by? Because I've got to warn you, I only _seem_ like I'm good at gift-giving. Truth is most of you are just really easy to figure out—especially Sten,” Aeron tells him. “I’ve never seen someone so happy to receive cake. It's actually rather sweet.”

“How can you tell—? No. Wait. Never mind, that's…” Zevran shakes his head. “I need to speak with you on a different matter—about Taliesen, primarily, and about…us, as well, I suppose.”

Aeron lowers her spoon. She tucks her hair behind her ears as she sits up in her chair. “Go on.”

He draws in a breath and considers his first words carefully. “It seems that, with Taliesen’s death, I have options now, whereas once I had none. As far as the masters are concerned, I am dead along with him, either by his hand or a Warden's.”

“You really believe that, though?” Aeron asks. “I mean, it wasn’t like he was the only one there. Some of them got away.”

“And they will likely be punished for their failure. No—” Zevran shakes his head. “Even if they believe me alive, they know for sure now that I have allies, and powerful ones. Sending more Crows after me is a waste of resources. As long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out.

“With that in mind,” he continues, “I suppose it would be possible for me to leave now, if I wished.”

Aeron’s eyes stay open a touch too long after blinking. “Leave?”

“I could go someplace far away, somewhere the Crows would never find me.”

“Assuming such a place exists.” She takes up her spoon and resumes slowly stirring. “Although—I mean—I guess if they think you’re dead or… I mean, if they won't come after you unless you provoke them, then it doesn't really matter where you go, does it?”

“I… No, I suppose not. So I suppose I could also stay here.” Zevran links his hands together and leans forward. “I made an oath to you, after all, and saving the world seems a worthy task to see through to the end, yes?”

“If it should please you to stay, I have no objections,” Aeron says before downing a spoonful of oatmeal.

He tilts his head. “Meaning?”

“Exactly what it means.” Aeron meets his gaze. “You aren't bound to the task like Alistair and I are. Leliana is with us because of her vision. Morrigan was more or less…indentured to us by her mother, and while only the Fade knows why Oghren, Sten, and Shale still stick around, I'm sure a genuine love of crushing in skulls is part of the reason, and they're pretty fucking great at it.”

“Agreed,” Zevran says with a laugh.

“Meanwhile—” She leans back and stretches her arms overhead. “—you were sent to kill us. You didn’t. You were our prisoner when you made that oath. I think it's safe to say that hasn't been the case for quite some time.”

Aeron relaxes out of the stretch and meets his gaze again—or at least tries to, before he lowers it to his hands.

“You could go, Zevran, if you feel that’s the safer bet for you, and I would never hold it against you. As far as I'm concerned, whatever debts exist between us are clear.”

“Then _tell me_ —that is what I am asking you!” Zevran insists. “Do you want me to go? Do you need me here? Am I still of use to you?”

Aeron looks at him for a long moment. (He wonders if he sounded desperate. He realizes he does not care.) And then, very simply, she puts her spoon into her bowl and slides both towards him.

“Try this.”

“With your spoon?” Reflex makes him say it, even as he takes up the handle. The oatmeal is thick but creamy, tasting of cinnamon—and then he picks up the tart of raspberry. “Hm. This is—”

“Good, right?”

“Unusual, was the word I was going to use, but…”

“I tried it on a whim, back on my first visit to Redcliffe, and I’ve been doing it ever since—at least, when I have the chance.” Aeron gathers her hair over one shoulder. “I’m not a master cook by any means, but I can tell when things go well together.”

Zevran takes another spoonful for himself, savoring the mix. He sits back in his chair. “It’s good.”

“Of course, it is.” Aeron leans forward,  gesturing for the spoon. “I have good taste.”

He laughs, tapering off into silence as they share what was surely just meant for one. It is not lost on him, the analogy she was trying to make (and maybe she made it so obvious on purpose), but what does she expect him to do with it? How is that supposed to help him decide what to do with any more certainty?

“Listen, Aeron, nobody has ever…” Zevran stops. He tries again. “Normally, these things are decided by someone else. This is… It is new, this sense of—of freedom.”

_Freedom._ The word feels odd in his mouth—heavy, misshapen—and leaves a bitter taste that makes him glad to have control of the spoon. He can feel Aeron watching him, waiting patiently. Zevran half-pushes the bowl back in her direction, tracing the carved design with his gaze.

“The last time I let my heart decide my actions, I almost died, and yet…it was right. It was the right choice.” Zevran nods to himself. “So, with that in mind, I suppose that…I shall stay.”

“You’ll stay?”

Zevran looks up at her. “Is that…good?”

And for a fraction of a moment, as she rises and rounds the table, he almost expects Aeron to tell him that it isn’t.

Then her lips are feather-light against his brow, and Zevran wonders how he ever could have doubted her.

**Author's Note:**

> Super huge thanks to both [Disputedleech](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Disputedleech) and [LoonyLupin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin) for offering some much needed (and very helpful) advice during the writing process. Help me thank them by giving their fics a read sometime!


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